


Into The Halls Of Waiting

by OneWhoICouldFollow



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Denial, F/M, Flashbacks, Grief, Heartbreak, Hobbit Spoilers, If You Haven't Read The Book Or Know How The Hobbit Ends, One Shot, Young Thorin, dealing with death, grieving process, sad fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 14:43:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1351228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneWhoICouldFollow/pseuds/OneWhoICouldFollow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Heart So Big, God Wouldn't Let It Live.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into The Halls Of Waiting

**Author's Note:**

> An extremely sad fic, so beware if it's fluff you're after! Written quite a while ago and shelved because it hurt to write and I didn't know if the style of writing worked or was too confusing. Inspired by an interview of Richard's where he suggested that he thought Thorin may have had a loved one who died when Smaug took Erebor. I turned it around in the thought of how it would be if that loved one survived his loss instead. Written in a more poetic verse than my other works in an experiment into emotional descriptive writing.
> 
> The Oath update coming soon, for any who care. :)

 

There is a place, below the high peak of Erebor, where hearts go to settle and eagles spread their wings to touch the sweeping grace of the landscape below. When you sit there, atop a wide ledge cut into the mass of hard rock, moss tickling at your ankles and knees pulled close to your body, you can see the history spilling out across your vision. It's the distant past, of kings and glory long gone, or maybe it’s a taste of the future, of what you can imagine but barely see. You breathe in air that has been untouched except for the grace of the Valar and when you exhale, it’s twilight that you paint out across an horizon not marred, but set by a city of something beyond man.

As the soft hues of twilight fade into the dark blushes of dusk, you can shift and the world shifts with you. It’s subtle, like a small ripple of a tiny fish in a lake, a ripple unknown to anyone but you, but to you it’s a world of difference.

There is a place, below the high peak of Erebor, where the heart can see beyond the eyes, where the world is so vast and you are so minuscule that maybe, just maybe, you can finally understand your purpose in the world at last.

You breathed quietly, the lights of Dale sweeping into life, from one corner, farthest from the sunset, and spreading out across the middle like a blaze. When they reached the top, the lanterns burned into your eyelids and you were sure you could taste light on your tongue if you just tried hard enough.

Beside you, a figure. Not so much moving as shifting, as leaning comfortably into something he knew was entirely his. 

“I think I know what you mean,” you breathed. Your voice, fragile and soft, hardly broke the air around you. Far below, a group of barely distinguishable figures made their way back towards the mountain, their rowdy voices brought up to you on a gust of cool breeze, making you smile.

“About what?” Thorin murmured. His cheek, already pressed into your shoulder, brushed against soft velvet as he tilted his head up. 

“Sometimes, I think, you just have to look outside of yourself.” 

An arc of lights flashed as Laketown also glimmered into existence, starting at the bottom and winding toward the sky. A falcon crossed overhead and someone below on the white winding path struck up a fiddle. A merry musical accompaniment was just what had been missing. No grief, but the drunken, happy voices of dwarf lads and lasses far too young to be linked, arm in arm, mouth to mouth, made for a good substitute.

Thorin seemed to think about those words a moment - what they meant. You ran your fingers through long strands of raven hair that moved in the wind, but stilled under your touch. The brooding dwarf seemed to colour and smile with some thought that spread across his entire face, that lit it as brightly and breathtakingly as the lanterns in the fair city far below. 

He murmured something that the wind caught, but you did not. Slim fingers reached the bottom of the raven mass, smooth hand brushing against a nape warm to touch. Thorin tilted his head up and you moved forward, allowing brows to touch under the safe cover of dusk. Fingers braced on shoulders, laced together or smoothed gently against chilled skin. 

You could feel the happiness through Thorin's skin, warm like the sun.

“I think I would choose you over the world,” Thorin’s whisper traced the dip of your throat. 

You could feel the flush spread across your cheeks before Thorin could see it and Thorin could see the love in your eyes before you could feel it. 

“Dear one?” Thorin whispered into your neck. 

“Hmm?”

“Would you say yes?”

Your heart stuttered and a breeze ruffled across Eru’s land. The bells of Dale rang out another hour that settled deep into your breast. 

“Really?” you asked quietly, biting at your lower lip - not wanting to assume.

He laughed softly at your disbelief, his eyes shining with warmth. 

"Will you say yes?” he repeated, more firmly.

It wasn’t hesitation so much as a moment so perfect that just one syllable could shatter it. 

But moments were meant to be shattered, especially when better ones lay hidden beneath.

Your voice brushes the hollow under Thorin's jaw.

“Yes.” 

There is a place, below the high peak of Erebor, where the grace of Eru’s Arda manifests in the simple beating of touching hearts. There is an indentation in the moss, a few yards from the edge of the precipice, reaching down toward man and beast, where two hearts came as two, and left as one. 

When you stood, when you brushed off green from your knees and backs, when your fingers tangled together and you climbed back towards the hidden door cut into the mountainside, your left hand glittered where it had not before.

 

 

_You remember the first time you saw Dwalin cry. Face red and scrunched, emotion drawn across features usually so stern and solid, the tears from a warrior himself were the first indication of a victory that was not his or theirs, but another stain of grief on the history of Moria._

_This time, it’s different because it is not the tears of a warrior or captain, but the tears of a brother, of a friend, of a simple dwarf. He crumples to the floor, holds his knees to his chest, takes in deep, shuddering breaths that make your throat taste like glass shards._

_When Dwalin cries this time, he sobs. It’s guttural, it’s low and comes from somewhere deep, maybe his stomach or his chest. His fingers curl into his hair and you can feel the pain at the end, his remaining follicles crying out for respite._

_You want desperately to laugh, but don't think you remember how. Dwalin's shuddering body signals that maybe the older dwarf might not either._

_You bend down, mechanically wrapping your arms around him, your protector, your guard. Dwalin shakes his head and pushes his face into your shoulder. Your fingers run through coarse hair and they remember another time, when they ran through longer, softer strands._

_Something inside your chest constricts, but Dwalin’s breaking and you don't know how to._

_Or maybe it’s just that you've shattered already._

 

 

He had often teased you that it had been a seduction. It made him sound more in-control, more focused, to shift the blame on to the girl with gold for a heart. You often laughed in response and mentioned that if it had been a seduction, then you must have been a damned good temptress. And really attractive. And really good in certain areas.

It's not as though Thorin could particularly disagree.

You spent so much time together in lush fields, in ancient woods and in deep caverns alone, that it was really surprising that it was nowhere near any of these when it happened. Maybe that was just as well, because the caverns especially always reminded Thorin of shameful trysts and young affairs ending in regret, and - as he would say, holding your face between his strong fingers - this was not a tryst and it was not shameful, it was  _never_ shameful. 

Instead, like everything about you, it was unassuming, unplanned, because there was nothing about reading on the couch before an open fire that immediately drew any connection to sex. Well, nothing except for Thorin himself, of course. 

You moved yourself languidly, easily, shifting until your head was in his lap and legs were dangling off the side of the couch. Thorin, absentmindedly reading you a book he had no interest in, was running his fingers lightly - through your hair, over your forehead, across the shell of your ears and to the hollow underneath. He ran his fingers up and down your jaw and only stirred when the pads of his thumbs, running across the bottom of your lips, caused you, his childhood friend, to freeze. 

The space in the room stilled, lightning licking up from the ground in its place. Thorin's blind eyes were unmoving on the worn pages of your favourite book, but his breathing shallowed as your hand, resting on his arm, slowly crawled up to his face, thumb tenderly stroking at his cheek. 

He could taste something in the air, but it only dried his mouth. He licked his lips and tried to swallow, but getting past the lump in his throat proved more difficult than expected.

Your fingers lingered on his ear and the muscles in Thorin's stomach tightened, because he couldn’t remember how they had got there. He felt the gentle pads of thumbs slowly slip down his neck and feel cool index fingers trace dips in the muscles of his chest and when they stopped and pressed against his heart, Thorin took in a sharp breath and finally looked down. 

Lips parted, eyes trained on his, you looked both scared and breathtaking. It made Thorin’s stomach twist. 

You don't remember much of the rest. The feeling of not being able to get close enough mainly, but what you do remember is less memory and more instinct. At some point, the book had been discarded, but what you think of most are the soft kisses and murmured words Thorin left upon your throat, across your shoulders, down the line of your jaw, under your ears, and on your lips as you both lay tangled and sated. 

You had often insisted that your first time hadn't meant you were in love. That it was a few minutes of insanity between best friends in the heat of the moment. But Thorin would always shake his head, laugh, and wrap his arms around your shoulders, flowering your soft skin with kisses again. 

… Of course, you hadn’t believed yourself either.

 

 

_It was always unnerving, sitting across from Dis. If ever a virtue was made for one woman, patience was created for Dis. Her movements were almost always non-existent, the blinking of her eyes so slow that by the time her eyelids closed and opened again, there was little left to do but scramble to hide - secrets, words, thoughts held in close._

_You are too tired to avoid that gaze, too old to make up excuses that will, for just a few seconds, give you respite from Dis._

_Dis says nothing, simply sips at her tea. Across from her, you can feel the tension and it curdles in your stomach; makes you feel almost painfully sick. Dis blinks and you are close to screaming._

_“What?” you snap, almost viciously. Your own tea lies, forgotten, in front of you. Somewhere along the way, Dis had insisted on making you lunch. That, too, lies untouched if, indeed, it had ever been acknowledged._

_“When was the last time you ate?” Dis asks slowly, carefully._

_You blink, glare back._

_“Excuse me?”_

_Dis reaches strong hands forward. Before you can move away, Dis' fingers curl around a thin, frail wrist. They wrap easily around, completely, and Dis takes a sharp breath in._

_“Little one, you’re skin and bones.”_

_A fire starts in the pit of your stomach. You snatch your wrist back, or at least try to. Dis' grip is firm - almost too firm - and you can’t remember the last time you felt so weak._

_“That’s none of your concern,” you clench your fists. Fingernails dig in to almost translucent skin. Your limbs shake, belying the truth. Betraying you, you think._

_“What are you doing to yourself?” Dis asks after a moment. Her face is pained, her voice is soft. Something stirs in your heart before you remember that you don’t have one anymore._

_“I’m fine, save your sympathy for someone who -”_

_“I’m not giving you my sympathy, little one,” Dis frowns and finally withdraws her hand. You snap back your arm, as though it's been burned. “I’m offering you my care. As a sister.... As a friend.”_

_You don't even consider this. Pushing yourself instead to a standing position, chair screeching against the stone floor. Other's stare. You have not a care to give. You breathe harshly, but can’t remember how you got this angry or when._

_“I don’t need friends.”_

_Dis shakes her head sadly as she watches you._

_“Dearest, he wouldn’t want you to do this to yourself.”_

_You freeze. There’s ice where your limbs should be, boiling flames where your stomach should be. You can’t tell which is which. A sob curls in your throat and you swallow it whole, feeling as though you were going to be ill._

_Instead, you knock the cup from the table to send it shattering into tiny porcelain fragments on the hard, cold floor ._

_“Leave me alone.”_

_You turn on your heels and storm out of the room._

_You refuse to turn back around, so you do not see Dis bury her face into her hands, shoulders shaking._

 

 

"I'm Thorin.." 

You stared at him, bemused. He was a beautiful creature, almost blinding in how different he was. In how seemingly comfortable he was in his own skin. 

He opened his mouth and grinned, showing a row of perfect teeth. You, still staring in shock at the little bundle of unrestrained joy in front of you, raised an eyebrow and Thorin smiled sheepishly.

You suddenly remembered yourself, "I already know who you are, my Lord." You attempt a pitiful imitation of a courtesy and he snorts, holding out a hand to you instead.

With a wary expression you hesitantly reached out your own.

Thorin laughed and shook it enthusiastically, his hand was abnormally warm and soft against yours. The contrast of brown on white was almost startling, but then so was everything about him. He shook his head and long, raven hair whipped back and forth across his shoulders. 

"Would you like to spar sometime? I hear you're amazing. For a girl.."

“Oh. I'm - .” You frown suddenly, "Wait, what is that supposed to mean!?"

Thorin cocked his head in response, before letting out a loud laugh. Before you knew what was happening, he had thrown his arms around your shoulder and your head spun at the warm smell of spices and baked bread, simmering under some musky smell you didn’t know. 

“You’re pretty,” Thorin declared and kissed your cheek before running away toward a group of small boys who had turned up to train with him.

Your cheeks were bright red even as you recovered you arrows from the target and unstrung your bow.

Thorin was good. He fought a little too aggressively and his technique was far from perfect, but when he held a sword, it was almost as though the weapon was part of him. You watched him all of practice - watched the way he danced to and fro, watched the way he laughed any time someone called to him, teasingly. You also watched as his eyebrows furrowed and he bit his lip whenever the old weapons master told him to improve on something. You watched the way Thorin defeated all of his friends, but how he also gave support, how he gave encouragement to those who needed it. You watched the way Thorin's hair glinted in the torchlight, the way his skin seemed to glow under the golden shadows, how his eyes crinkled whenever he smiled because he couldn’t just smile with his mouth, he had to smile with his whole face. 

After practice, as you had made to leave, some of the boys had called out a few insults, teasing you into sparring with them. Pace quickening, you had made to escape, not noticing the jeers had fallen silent until Thorin had caught up with you, exhausted but still smiling. "I told them to close their mouths or I would close them for them."

You stare back at him, a mad urge to bury your nose into that long hair and breathe deeply running through you, but you refrained. "You didn't need to defend me. I can handle them."

“I know. I was watching you earlier, you know. You  _are_ amazing.” 

You coloured and shifted uncomfortably, wanting to make your escape, but not knowing how without being rude. Thorin grins, speaking not only with his face but with his whole being. "Still .. I'll  _always_ defend you."

You pause in your tracks, dumbstruck, wide-eyed and he just beams. You figured you should give an intelligible response, but you couldn't think of one.

"You're the one." Thorin said instead. He said it like he meant something, although you couldn't figure out what. With another huge grin and a small wave he darts off down a tunnel, leaving you still speechless and staring after him. When you finally returned home and your mother asked you why you were so pink, you were not able to explain. 

Later, you would say that the first time you had spoken with Thorin, you had known he was special, but not  _that_  special. Later, Thorin would say that he had known from the second he had laid eyes on you that you were the most beautiful person he had ever seen.

... Later, you would disagree, saying that no one in the world had ever or would ever compare to Thorin.

 

At first, it was an exchange of looks, smiles saved only for the other, touches that lingered just a little too long to excuse. At first, you would brush your fingers together with his and Thorin would tug gently on the ends of your hair. At first, you were conspicuously like best friends, just maybe a little more, just maybe a little closer to something indefinable.

Then, you  _were_  more. When you crossed that line was a matter of interpretation, but suddenly it wasn’t so strange for you to be curled up against Thorin’s side as you gazed up at the stars from the mountainside. Suddenly, it wasn’t out of the ordinary for Thorin to seek the warmth of your hand for comfort. Suddenly, it wasn’t uncommon for either of you to pull the other into a corner and fill it with giggles and murmurs, with soft touches and hugs.

It was inevitable, Thorin's mother said.   
It was fate, Thorin smiled. 

 

 

_It’s not immediately obvious when you sense someone approach. The mist on the lake pressed against the back of your eyes, fine drizzle spraying lightly into your hair, your heartbeat moves slowly to the rhythm of the waves lapping the shore. After a while, you synchronize, one breath for one wave, and it’s only when the air moves around you that you stir._

_You can sense him before his feet even dig into the sandy bank, before he bends, before he makes his own little spot beside you. Years ago, maybe, this would have comforted you, but now the indentation is just another reminder of what you had lost.  
 _   
_For a few seconds, there is only the beating of the waves. Then a deep breath._

_“Dis told me I might find you out here.”_

_You taste something bitter on your tongue and open your eyes._

_“I thought you would have been better in her company instead of alone.” Gandalf says. His eyes look out toward the point where the sky meets the peak of the mountain. You would find it poetic if you could bring yourself to look at him. You can’t._

_Instead, you tilt your head up toward white._

_When you say nothing, the old man sighs and rests a hand softly on your shoulder._

_“Where’s the sun, little one?”_

_You feel acid lick up your throat and you swallow boiling water._

_“Somewhere where I can never feel its warmth again.”_

 

 

The green knit together; an unending, uninterrupted carpet of foliage and pine trees. Somewhere ahead, Thorin could see hints of gold glinting off strands of soft hair. He blinked and suddenly it was gone. In its place was more green.

“You’re a mighty warrior amongst dwarves! Why are you so slow, my  _Lord_!?” You called from up ahead. Any other person would look annoyed at the pace; You were bordering on laughing. 

“Your backpack isn’t as heavy as mine!” Thorin protested, shifting his sack on his back to prove his point. 

“You mean my head isn't as big as yours!” You grinned and ducked quickly under branches as Thorin let out a strangled noise and tried to quicken his pace to exact revenge. 

Loose rocks and dirt slipped under the traction of his boots and, unexpectedly, he went tumbling forward into the brush. 

Your laughter could be heard from a mile away.

"I am never bringing you hiking again..” Thorin grumbled, groaning as he finally reached level ground. 

He dumped his backpack on the ground next to yours and stretched his sore limbs, another complaint on his lips, until you suddenly appeared at his elbow and pressed a finger to his mouth, your tender smile chasing away his irritation before he could even utter a single word.

Sighing softly, the light of forgiveness shining in his eyes, he returned the smile, breath warm and insistent as he leaned in to whisper in you ear. “Now .. Close your eyes.”

You, of course, opened your mouth in indignation at the request, but your sounds were muffled as Thorin took your own lips between his index finger and thumb, pressing them together. 

“Shut. Up.” he laughed tenderly. 

You glared and did as you were told. 

Your mother had always told you that cutting off one sense heightened the others. It’s not that you hadn’t known that, it’s more that you had never had a reason to experience it. Shaded eyes and silence on your tongue, you took a breath. What you inhaled was not air, but clarity, translucent and crisp to the ridges of your lungs. The sweet smells of pines and nutty wood tempered by earth and rocks; a taste as familiar as the warmth covering your hand, tugging you forward.

Your feet felt the ground, the sticks sharply cracking beneath, and you wondered what soft earth felt like; if you had ever felt it before. There was a smile on your lips as Thorin let go. You knew it was time to open your eyes when you felt his arms around his waist.

“Happy Birthday,” brushed against your ear as you fluttered awake. 

Before you; a view that caught in your throat. A steep drop into eternity from the top of the peak that looked out and found the world at its base. You thought you could see footsteps of trees far below, a road twisting away into cities of men resting under the blanket of cloud. Hawks cried in the far distance and you could feel the water beating against the edges of crags and calcified sediments.

Thorin's nose nudged your jaw and you remembered to exhale. You turned your head and he gave you the special smile you knew he reserved just for you; leaned forward and pressed three words on your cheek.

“I love you.” 

_I love you_. You blinked.

 

 

_The first time you see Bofur after that day, you think the usually jovial dwarf looks haggard. His thin cheeks have sunk in and large dark eyes are blinking away weariness that seems to have settled into his bones._

_“Lassie..” he says and the tiredness creeps into his voice too. It cracks and he turns his face down._

_You want to reach out, because Bofur looks solid - even though he might not feel it - but you can’t seem to move your arms. There’s a lump in your throat, a break in your chest, stinging in your eyes. You can’t breathe._

_So Bofur, being Bofur, does it. He reaches his arms forward, wraps them around your shoulders. Someone trembles, but neither know who._

_Bofur lets go and you realise it’s you._

_“Do you still trust in Mahal?” it comes out like a whisper; a secret between you._

_A pause and Bofur looks toward the sky._

_“Every day.”_

_You lick your cracked lips and close your eyes._

_“…how?”_

_The real question is clear -_ why?

_It takes a minute for Bofur to reply, but when he does, it’s with a kiss to your cheek._

_“Because someone has to take care of him now.”_

 

 

Above all, Thorin hated saying goodbye. It was his one rule, the one, unequivocally enforced guideline in his life and despite there being many bitter partings in your time together, he had always refused to say it.

_“Saying goodbye is ridiculous,” he had always insisted. “Where is the good in goodbye?”_

“I'll be back so soon you won't even have time to miss me,” Thorin had laughed. Your fingers struggled with the thick straps on Thorin's travelling bag as you finished adding the last few things to it.

“You’ve never set out to achieve the impossible before,” You had protested. "We could not keep out the dragon with the full might of Erebor. And you think you can defeat him with just a few?" Shifting your weight from one foot to the other, you turn to face him directly and gaze imploringly into his eyes. "Don't go."

“Moria was considered impossible, you know..” Even on the moment of separation, you could see the confidence in the proud dwarf’s eyes.

“And I almost lost you then..” You had countered. 

"No you didn't. I hardly had a scratch."

You glared at him for a moment before reaching up a hand to caress his cheek. He smiles once more at your expression and leans in to press his lips to yours. "I'll return for you as soon as I can. And then I would make you a queen."

"Just make sure you return, Thorin Oakenshield. Promise me."

“I will .. I love you,” Thorin had said. 

Preoccupied with worry you had nodded, "I love you too."

“See you soon,” Thorin had grinned.

Without thinking, you had slipped.

“Goodbye.”

 

 

_“My Lady...” Balin's expression turned your insides to ice as he crumpled to his knees by your feet and reached out for your hand. "My Lady, we were overwhelmed... We couldn't reach him, couldn't save him... He is slain.. He is gone.."  
_

 

 

 

                                  It's a funny thing, death. It's never real until you see the evidence for yourself.

 

 

Beside a tomb made of smoothest granite, you sank to your knees. Collapsed on to bones that smashed into hard rock, sent shocks of numbing pain rocketing up through sinews tightened by lack of breath. Every muscle pulled, blood clotted before circulating, and a gaping, piercing hole spread in your chest where your heart should have been. 

There's an emptiness you feel; a debilitating, bone-shattering, suffocating loneliness when you realise that after everything, that after all of the sunlight and happiness in the world, that after years of love, all it takes is a single gust of wind to snuff out the light. You can switch off, live in denial, but, in the end, he is still not there. 

In the middle of the cold, hard cavern, with your lungs pressing into the back of your throat, body doubled over from already festering wounds, and molten, red-fire streams running down your face - burning to touch, burning to feel - you pulled at your hair and screamed. 

 

 

 

_It’s sunny, the day of the memorial. The sky, which has been overcast and wet for weeks without mercy, is the brightest blue you've ever seen. It hurts your eyes more than your chest, but maybe that’s just relative._  

_There’s a line, a crowd, an entire city, a family; a million people he had loved and who loved him._

_The one he loved best, turns away from the congregation, hollow eyes looking for something they won’t ever find._

“In his life, he was larger than this. Even as statuesque,” Dain’s voice says, gesturing to the cold, unseeing marble likeness that was now all you had left to remind you of his beauty and warmth. He turns his eyes up, to the shadowy roof of the cavern. “May Mahal grant him entry into the Halls of Waiting.” 

_It doesn’t rain and the clouds don’t return. The sun beats down almost stubbornly, as if showing that it, too, has a memory to share._

 

 

It was never a matter of if, but when. Because, if you were being honest, it had never been a matter of  _if_ , had always been a matter of  _of course_. If anything, you had been the one surprised because how could Thorin -  _Prince_  Thorin with his innate beauty, with his laughter, who was larger than life at the worst of times - how could Thorin want anything you had to offer? 

Thorin laughed at the hesitation on your face; at the trepid longing, at the soft pink that spread across delicate skin. He brought his hands - large, warm, gentle with a hint of rough - to your face; framed pale between fingers of tan. His thumb brushed your bottom lip and you gasped, breath startled.

“I love you, so very much.” Thorin rested his forehead against yours; closed his eyes and inhaled the woods and a warm spring day. “I have loved you since the day first I saw you.”

With your heart beating on the edge of your skin, you didn’t think you could feel any warmer than you did then. You leaned forward, whispering into Thorin's hair.

“I ....” the words felt soft on your tongue and you pressed your lips to Thorin’s cheek. “...I love you too.”

Thorin opened his eyes and smiled.

 

 

_“I brought some food,” Gandalf tugs on a waxcloth bag by his feet. The cloth rustles and the noise disrupts your concentration. In any other life, you would wrinkle your nose. Now, you just sigh._

_“I’m not hungry,” you mumble._

_Gandalf presses his fingers into your arm again. It doesn’t bruise, but something inside you does._

_“Dis says you haven’t been eating,” he says. His voice sounds so sad that you can hear it in the cry of eagles high above._ I haven’t been hungry _seems disrespectful to say, so you say nothing at all._

_Finally, Gandalf's palm finds your own. It’s larger, rougher, warmer, more hesitant. The lines feel foreign, like shapes you can’t recognise. He understands. You can read it in his heavy brow._

_Gandalf smooths his other fingers over your hair._

_“Will you eat?” he asks._

_Once more you do not answer, and his face finds the sweeping arc where your neck meets your shoulder. You feel salt on your skin. "Forgive me, child.."_

_The cool air breaks across your outstretched feet._

_You shudder and take a bite._

 

 

You don't wear anything formal. You don't wear a gown or robe or even a fancy cloak. You wear worn down slacks with holes where the knees should be. You wear a loose shirt that was now so large on your slight frame that you couldn't tell if it was yours or had once belonged to Thorin. You don’t hide under a cowl or a hat; You want to feel the heat beat against your sensitive skin today, you want to feel its fire tangling your now lank hair. 

You feel the warmth of the deep rock on the back of your neck, slicking it with a sheen of sweat, and you twist it, popping a crick that’s been developing there. Your breathing is low and shallow, but steady. You carve your nails onto your palm as your feet stutter to a stop, as your eyes find the slab of grey so unbefitting, so uncharacteristic that it makes the bile rise. 

You choke on it, but bend to your knees anyway. Your fingers, alarmingly thin, reach forward and brush over indentations so new that you can feel the sharp edges on your fingertips. 

You take in a quivering breath.

You have brought no offering, just yourself.

“I know you’re not there, Thorin ...” you choke out, because the words have bored holes into the back of your head, the back of your eyes. The very reality you've been running from there in front of you, undeniable and solid as stone. “.. but I don’t know where you are.”

Your hands are shaking, then your arms, then your shoulders. Slowly, you withdraw your fingers because there are tremors running through your entire body and breathing hurts so much that you have to clutch your stomach.

“Where are you, Thorin?” you ask the stone and tears burn down your face. The stone doesn’t answer, and your heart shatters. 

“ _Where are you!?_ ” you ask again, louder this time - almost infinitely, almost screamed to feel the strain in your throat, to know that it’s there - and this time, this first time - this second time, this last time - you allow yourself to sob until your lungs are crying out too. 

It reminds you of a place just below the high peak of Erebor, where eagles soar and dreams and reality mingle. It reminds you of a pair of crystal, blue eyes, of long hair you loved to run fingers through, of raven splayed across warm skin under your touch. It reminds you of life, and then it reminds you of none of these things at all.

Standing now on that very precipice of  _his_  legacy, the Celduin river stretches out before you, emptying into a stretch of grey and blue that extends beyond your vision. It's symbolism, you think; a greater life swallowing a smaller one. Only Thorin had never been the smaller life, so you wonder where you yourself fit into fate's picture. There was a bright spot of colour, once, a stroke that was out of place simply by its sheer beauty. It never fit, but only out of necessity, never out of choice. Now it’s gone and you wonder whether or not you imagined the painting at all.

“Are you ready?” a soft voice asks near your shoulder. 

No. But that had never mattered. 

You nod your head slightly and Dis stands. She steps back, gives you the space you need to say goodbye.

But you don't.

“Where _is_ the good in goodbye?” You laugh out through bitter tears. Shaking your head you unfasten the thong from around your neck and hold it out. 

The wind stirs the lock of raven hair now caught in your hand, and Dis wraps an arm around you from behind - steadying you, always steadying you - as you close your eyes and open your palm. 

You don’t watch the lock fall, don’t watch it catch in the wind and be carried out, don’t watch as the last reminder of the person you love most drifts away from you, on the updraughts of Rhovanion.

“Wait for me, Thorin,” you whisper. “Because this isn’t goodbye.”

You turn away, the fleeting taste of memories on your tongue, and Dis lets you bury your heart in her arms. 

There is a place, just below the high peak of Erebor, where life empties out into an ocean of sky larger than the heart’s eye. On the shoulder of this mountain, where the sky meets hard rock, there are two hearts. One broken, shattered, and one lifeless, no pulse. One, scattered amongst the blue, reaching the edges of the sky, floats as free in death as it did in life. The other, bound to earth by time, barely beats. There are times when it remembers - remembers life, remembers happiness - but mostly it remembers what was and what never can be. 

There is a place, just below the high peak of Erebor, where the wind whistles past the snow covered rise and meets the emptiness of space and time. On this cliff, on worn rocks of hot dwarven blood and burning dwarven words, one heart, spread across the heights, waits patiently for the other to join and the other, caught in place by divine hands and the beat of mortality, is impatient to reunite.

 

 


End file.
